


We're Never Far Enough Away

by Aylwyyn228



Series: There was something taking care of me and you [10]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bittersweet, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228
Summary: For all he was an excellent conman, Dutch had never been able to lie to him. Evidently he had not improved over the years.Dutch and Hosea talk after the failed trolley station robbery.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Series: There was something taking care of me and you [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090346
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	We're Never Far Enough Away

**Author's Note:**

> This now been translated into [Russian!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10003091) Thank you so much to [kugamm!](https://ficbook.net/authors/4295177)

Hosea flinched awake at the touch on his leg and then relaxed almost instantly. “Dutch?”

It wasn’t late, not really, he could still hear movement outside, Javier talking to one of the girls, but the room was shrouded in gloom. Nevertheless, he could recognise Dutch in the dark. The way he moved, or the way the air felt as he moved through it, Hosea didn’t know, but he’d learnt  _ Dutch _ , over the years. 

Dutch didn’t answer him. 

Hosea waited. 

After a second, the shuffle of fabric that indicated Dutch had shed his waistcoat, or perhaps his shirt, Hosea felt him come closer. Felt the weight as he knelt on the cot next to Hosea’s thigh, and then the press of him. 

Hosea grunted against the weight across his chest. “S a little hot for that.” 

It didn’t stop his hands from coming up automatically against the lines of Dutch’s back. Familiar. Changed, but still familiar. 

Dutch had not shed his shirt. 

He still didn’t answer. 

“Molly?” Hosea asked, already knowing the answer. 

Dutch shifted his weight, and Hosea felt the brush of Dutch’s hair against his jaw. “Upstairs.” 

“You argued again?” 

Dutch made a noise, and shifted again, like that would stop him from having to answer. “Reckon we’ve already done all our arguin’,” he said, finally. “It’s about done.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hosea said automatically, though he wasn’t. 

He was sorry for Miss O’Shea, somewhere at the back of his heart. But she was naive, young and foolish, and one in a long line of broken hearts left behind Dutch. 

Dutch loved fiercely, but he grew cold even quicker. He was hot for the chase, and only the chase. 

A caught fox quickly lost its appeal.

Hosea had thought for a while that young Miss Gaskill would be the next to get Dutch hot, but perhaps she’d proved more easily caught than he’d expected.

Or perhaps Dutch was just getting old. 

Hosea supposed that the only hearts Dutch hadn’t left in his wake were his and Susan’s. He couldn’t speak for Susan, but he suspected she’d read the lay of the land as well as he had, long before Dutch had even begun pursuit.

Dutch craved all that was new.

There would always be a new prize pony. Always. 

The trick was not to mind it.

Hosea burned cool himself these days. Always had, perhaps. 

He let his hand run patterns up Dutch’s spine. “You alright, old boy?” 

“Mmmm.” 

Hosea waited. For all he was an excellent conman, Dutch had never been able to lie to him. Evidently he had not improved over the years. 

“Sneaky bastard set us up,” he carried on finally. 

Hosea smiled to himself. “Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. Which particular sneaky bastard are we discussing?” 

“Angelo Bronte,” Dutch spat, overpronouncing the syllables. 

Hosea suspected he may have had a drink.

“Ah, yes. You weren’t sure of him.”

“I shoulda trusted my gut.” 

Hosea hummed, and let his hand trail up to brush into the back of Dutch’s hair. “What happened?” 

“Foll’wed up on the trolley station.” 

Hosea stilled. Dutch had definitely been drinking. A coil of worry settled around his heart, he hadn’t seen Arthur since he’d returned from his own scouting mission in town, but he could still hear murmured conversation from outside the window. The mood in camp was too amiable for anything too dire to have happened, poor Kieran’s death notwithstanding. 

Hosea made himself relax, and went back to running his fingers through the back of Dutch’s hair. 

“Half of Saint Denis’s law was on us ‘fore we even got outta there,” Dutch continued. “And we barely got shit outta it.” 

“At least  _ you _ got out of it.” 

Dutch hummed again, like that was small consolation indeed. “Lenny got us out.” 

“He’s a smart kid.” 

“That he is.” 

Dutch stretched, lazily, like a cat, and Hosea let his hand drift further. He stopped all of a sudden, when he felt the sticky wetness at the back of Dutch’s skull. 

“Dutch?” 

“Mmmm?” 

“Are you… hold on…” 

He leaned up, not enough to dislodge Dutch from his chest but enough that he could feel for the old kerosene lamp on the nightstand. He fumbled for a second and then managed to get it lit. 

He lifted his hand, and sure enough there was a tacky smudge of blood against his fingers. 

“Dutch?” He said again, alarm flaring in his gut. “You hurt?” 

“Mmm. A bit.” 

Hosea tried to sit up more so that he could get a look at him, but Dutch was still loungin’ across his chest, and not lookin’ like he was intendin’ on movin’ any time soon.

“Quit your frettin’,” Dutch mumbled. “Took a knock is all. Gotta headache like the devil himself is hammerin’ at my skull.” 

“Oh,” Hosea let his hand drift back into Dutch’s hair, found the wound again. It wasn’t much, just a tiny gash, not even bleeding really, any more. Dutch flinched and Hosea withdrew his hand. “Sorry.” 

“S’alrigh’.” 

Hosea took up his old position, running hands up and down Dutch’s spine. “That why you been drinkin’? Take the edge off?” 

Dutch hummed again. “I ain’t been drinkin’.” 

“Oh.” Hosea frowned. “Are you sure-” 

“We’ll talk ‘bout it tomorrow, alrigh’? Just… just wanna pretend the whole world ain’t against us for an evening.” 

Hosea let himself laugh. “World’s always been against us, Dutch. That’s never changed.”

“Well, maybe it’s all just fallin’ apart then.” 

Hosea nudged his arm. “Ain’t fallin’ apart either, it’s just changed, that’s all.”

“And we ain’t.” 

“No. We just got old.” 

Dutch lifted his head, looked straight into Hosea’s eyes, with that grin of his. Lord, it’d been twenty five years, and Dutch could still make his heart swell, like they could take on a whole goddamn army if they were side by side. 

“Speak for yourself, you old conman,” Dutch said. “I’m still in my prime.” 

Hosea laughed. “Maybe, just about.” 

Dutch laid back down, face pressed against Hosea’s chest, just the same as he had years ago. 

“I feel like the ground beneath our feet is crumbling,” Dutch said. “I feel…  _ unstable _ . I… I can feel the future comin’ at us, like, like standin’ on a railroad, that rumble beneath your feet? The tracks singin’. And… I’m not sure there’s a place for us in this new world, my old friend.”

Hosea didn’t answer. The truth was, he didn’t  _ have _ an answer. He was shaken. Blackwater was a mistake. There’d been enough of them, over the long years, and he’d mighta been mad at Dutch for not thinkin’ it through, but he was old enough to recognise that sometimes it just didn’t work out. 

But since then, they hadn’t been able to shake their trail. Pinkertons, and the law, and God knows who else, nippin’ at their heels every step. And Hosea had lived a long time. Not long enough to pass into frailty, but then that had never been on the cards, men like him didn’t live long enough to slow. But it was long enough that he’d disappeared enough times. He’d always relied on their ability to slip away and get themselves lost in the wilderness. 

But there didn’t seem to be much wilderness anymore. 

The limelight was slowly finding them. Lighting up all the dark hollows. 

There was nowhere left to hide.

And if Blackwater had left him unsteady, then the debacle in Rhodes had truly left him unstrung. They shouldn’t have been so outmatched, so, so… 

One mistake was an accident, but two, in a row? Three dead in six months? 

Hosea could feel the doubt clawing up inside him just the same as Dutch could. The dread deep in his gut that said this was all coming to an end. 

He pressed his face into Dutch’s hair rather than think on it. “We’ll be alright,” he said quietly. “We’ve dug enough bullets outta each other over the years. We’ll be alright.” 

Dutch didn’t say anything, but manoeuvred himself up so that he was close to Hosea’s face. Dutch was still here. Tired looking, and much, much older, but here still, in his heart and in his bed. 

Hosea took the bait and kissed him. 

It wasn’t filled with heat. Not with fire, and promise. They even kissed like old men. But maybe it was sweeter for that. 

“It’s goin’ to end bloody,” Dutch said, breath warm against Hosea’s lips. His eyes were closed. “It was always goin’ to end bloody.” 

“I know.” Hosea kissed him again, the top of his lip, the skin beneath his jaw. “I made my peace with that. I don’t care if it ends bloody for us.” 

He’d nearly said ‘me’. He hadn’t imagined a death without gunsmoke since he was a boy. But he could see now, clear as anything, that there couldn’t be any peace for Dutch either. They were both men of a kind. There was no changing for them. They couldn’t live civilised, anymore than a wolf could put on a suit and hitch to New York. 

They were made for a world long gone. 

He thought that that was true for Arthur too, and John, though perhaps they could find a life for themselves. The last of a long line. The last of the gunslingers. Perhaps they could set up in the woodland, or on the plains, and tell stories to grandchildren about the good ol’ days in the West. 

In his heart, Hosea doubted it. 

Arthur and John were wild like the two of them were wild, but maybe… 

“I don’t care if it ends bloody for us,” Hosea said again. Forehead pressed against Dutch’s. Breathing in his air. “But I want the others to get out safe. There’s gotta be a way out.” 

“There’s a way out for all of us,” Dutch said, insistent. Like he could make it true by saying it enough. “We just need a little more money, and then we’ll get the boat.” 

Hosea decided to indulge him, just this once. “To Tahiti?” 

“To Tahiti.” Dutch leant down and pressed a kiss to the base of his throat. Continued trailing down his collarbones and his chest. “And we’ll be old, old men, drinking rum on the beach. And Jack’ll grow, and be the spittin’ image of his daddy. And Arthur’ll find a native woman, and have children of his own. All of them will. And we’ll be grandaddies a hundred times over.” 

Hosea reached up and curled a hand into his hair, tugged him upwards before he could trail too low. 

“You know, I’m beginning to like the sound of Tahiti.” 

Dutch smiled, and he looked young again, like he had when he first promised Hosea the world. “You will. We do this bank job, and we’ll be on our way. There’ll be enough there to see us home and dry. And then we’ll go. I swear it.” Dutch’s hand found the side of his jaw. “I wanna see you old, old girl.”

Hosea couldn’t help but smile. Couldn’t help but indulge him. 

“Wait your turn,” he said, and kissed him again. “ _ I _ wanna see how grey your hair can get, Van der Linde.” 


End file.
